


the sirens are singing your songs

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5367083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like Matt doesn’t have a good reason to be tired. He spent the last week chasing arms dealers into the small hours before showing up at the office for nine hours days. He is more than allowed to sleep on his night off. Foggy can deal. He’s survived chronic blue balls before, he can do it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sirens are singing your songs

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: There is somnophilia in this fic. Consent is not explicitly given until the end of the fic.

Let the record show that Foggy Nelson has the patience of a saint. In fact when he dies he’ll be personally offended if his grave stone doesn’t read: _Foggy Nelson, Awesome Friend and Generally Good Guy Who Had to Put Up With Way Too Much Crap That Was Totally Above and Beyond His Pay Grade_. He might need two stones.

He doesn’t think he’s just being full of himself when he tells himself he deals with a lot. He’s got a start up to manage, bills to pay, clients to help, friends to take care of, and Matt. Loving Matt Murdock is pretty much the emotional equivalent of jumping feet first into the deep end. And then at the eleventh hour you find out there are sharks in the pool and they can hear heart beats. Okay the metaphor’s not his finest but Foggy’s a little preoccupied at the moment, one hand clasping the pillow under his head and the other squeezing Matt’s forearm, mouth pressed shut against a whine when Matt rocks forward again, so slowly and gently that Foggy thinks he has a better chance of getting the lead in Newsies than convincing Matt to pick up the pace.

It’s not that Foggy doesn’t like slow.

As far as Foggy is concerned sex should be like ice cream, frequently enjoyed in a variety of flavors. Sex with Matt is, if possible, better than ice cream. Which isn’t at all a surprise given that Matt has never done anything by halves in all the years Foggy’s known him. If it’s worth doing it's worth doing well seems to be the Murdock motto, right behind, if you can’t fix it punch it until it stops moving. Matt can do quick and dirty and fun and ridiculous and marrow-meltingly hot and achingly tender, and yes, slow. Matt’s tool box has got it all.

Right now Matt’s hips are slowing practically to a standstill, his forehead hot against the back of Foggy’s neck, his breathing dangerously even and deep. Foggy would worry he’s slipped into a meditative trance if it weren’t for the part where he’s a hundred percent convinced Matt’s fallen asleep.

Foggy groans, sexually frustrated and honestly a little offended that Matt could fall asleep on him. Man can break a latte down to the first name of the cow the milk came from but he can’t keep his eyes open while fucking his boyfriend. “Matty?” Foggy whispers, stroking his fingers over Matt’s wrist, scratching lightly against the grain of the hair on his forearm. He shifts his hips a little, flexes forward and rocks back, as much as he can on his side with Matt’s arm still wrapped around him from behind and holding him tight. Matt is heavy inside, still hard and thick, and when Foggy moves Matt’s dick rubs just enough over a spot that makes the heat in his belly lick up his spine.

“Fuh-Fuck—Foggy.” Behind him Matt startles, hips jerking forward, and Foggy curses, turns his face into the pillow to keep from embarrassing himself fully. Ms. Rojas next door might not have super hearing but she’s given Foggy the hairy eyeball in the elevator too many time for Foggy not to think they might have kept her up on more than one occasion. Matt kisses the back of his neck, shifts his arm from around Foggy’s waist upward so that his hand curls up over Foggy’s shoulder, holding him in a place while he thrusts his hips forward, fucking Foggy steadily now that he’s rejoined the party. Tension coils low in Foggy’s belly, sensation bombards him from everywhere. Matt’s panting breath in his ear and his teeth set against the back of his neck, his rough fingertips digging into Foggy’s shoulder.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Foggy chants, trying for more leverage but not finding enough, his body alight and chasing the blissful edge of oblivion. His hand falls from Matt’s arm and reaches down, wraps around his dick, hot and so fucking hard Foggy could cry, to jerk himself off. He jumps a little when Matt’s hand closes over his wrists, stilling his hand. “Don’t.” Matt says, sends another heated thrill through Foggy’s body. “Just this.” Matt grinds forwards, still slow but with the clear intention of driving Foggy crazy as he sets Foggy’s hand down on the mattress and readjusts his grip on Foggy’s shoulder. What did he say, Matt’s just full of surprises.

Matt’s master plan works, pushing Foggy right to the edge and keeping him there, tension winding tighter and tighter inside him.

Matt says his name again, mumbles it against Foggy’s neck, his shoulder, leaves a trail of spit-damp kisses against Foggy’s back. His movements begin to slow again in increments, little by little, until he stops moving completely a second time.

Foggy sucks in a deep breath, heart still racing inside his chest (seriously how can Matt sleep through that ruckus? Foggy can feel it in his teeth). It’s not like Matt doesn’t have a good reason to be tired. He spent the last week chasing arms dealers into the small hours before showing up at the office for nine hours days, he is more than allowed to sleep on his night off. Foggy can deal. He’s survived chronic blue balls before, he can do it now. On the up side, Matt will probably feel so bad about this whole thing in the morning, he’ll let Foggy have one of those special holiday themed drinks from the coffee shop with only minimal complaining about how Foggy tastes like he’s been eating a scented candle.

Foggy reaches up to pry Matt’s hand from his shoulder, but Matt’s fingers tighten when he tries to extricate himself from Matt’s hold. Foggy tries wiggling forward but Matt’s ninja grip doesn’t give and Foggy whines, Matt’s dick still hard inside him. “Matty,” Foggy tries, but Matt just snuffles against Foggy’s neck, mouth slightly open and puffing wet against the skin there, “Matty you’re seriously killing me right now—I need—” He needs to come. He’ll be ashamed about his base bodily needs tomorrow (okay he totally won’t), “Matt—”

Foggy pushes his ass back against Matt, clenches around Matt and earns a low grunt from Matt, but he doesn’t wake, though his hips do shift forward, just a little, just enough to drag another whine from Foggy when he moves against Foggy’s prostate. Fuck.

Sainthood is overrated Foggy thinks, closing his hand over his aching dick and setting a merciless pace, grinding his own hips back as much as he can. He feels so full, Matt hot against his back and buried deep, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He’s effectively talking to himself but he can’t help it, he’s so close now, he’s just needs—

“Foggy.” Matt’s voice in his ear, vowel slurred with sleep and surprise, hips snapping forward as Foggy pushes back. His grip tightens on Foggy’s shoulder, pulling him closer, and Foggy loses it, fucks himself on Matt’s dick as he starts to come, muscles straining inside his skin. Matt holds him through it, presses gentle kisses over Foggy’s shoulder. “I’ve got you.” He whispers, voice soft, hand trailing from Foggy’s shoulder over his chest, his stomach, squeezing lightly at his hip while Foggy shivers through the aftershocks.

It takes a minute, his tongue immobile inside his mouth, “Shit—sorry babe I just—”

Matt shushes him, and Foggy can feel the curve of his smile against this skin. “It’s okay.” His fingers stroke over Foggy’s hip. “You okay?”

Foggy nods, orgasm still tingling along the surface of his skin, the stretch of Matt inside bordering on too much and still—

“Yeah.” Foggy pushes back, clenching around Matt and pulling a groan from him, “Yeah I’m gonna be fine.”

 

-

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Why is writing porn so much better than homework? 
> 
> Title from Don't Fall Asleep at the Helm by Sleeping with Sirens because I'm trash.


End file.
